The Rantings of a Bright but Tortured Soul
by balkajke
Summary: In late 2012, Austria finds the old musical doodles of Croatia, and returns them to their rightful owner. Meanwhile, both Croatia and Serbia deal with the still-fresh memories from lifetimes ago.


_**The Rantings of a Bright but Tortured Soul**_

_**2012**_

Austria was playing when it happened. His piano room was currently in dreadful disorder; that he knew. But he had just been halfway through a rendition of Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 when disaster struck - a box of his old scribblings fell right from the shelf above onto his hands, coercing a dull note from the piano. Austria jumped at once, clearing away the fallen papers when yet another box, spurred by the first disturbance, rained gently down upon him like a waterfall, until he was standing in a sea of old music.

With a resigned sigh, Austria knelt and began gathering the fallen music, stopping against his best judgement to read a few lines here and there. Oh, but he knew this piece! He'd written it ages ago, after a particularly beautiful sunset had stuck itself in his mind. And this one too, he had written it for Elizaveta but had been too afraid to show her when it was finished. Austria nearly fell over with laughter. It was rather funny how he'd written such a long time ago. He had been young then, naïve. He hadn't appeared so, but compared to now, he'd been so young. So foolish.

How ridiculous to think of himself as an old man now.

Shaking his head with a derisive snort, Austria threw the song for Elizaveta on his pile and looked deeper. Oh, now _these_ were just plain bad. Stuff from over a hundred and fifty years ago. All genuine in emotion, no doubt, but flat and boring in composition. He'd had this ridiculous favoring for major chords… he'd thought they sounded sophisticated or something along those lines. A smirk made its way onto his face as he leafed through these childish scribblings from lifetimes ago. But then… he got to the very bottom of the pile. The smile fell off his face as his fingers traced over these compositions, now yellowed with age. This was not his handwriting; not his signature. These were not his notes. These were all _his_…

His face entered Austria's memory. Proud, bold, daring. His golden-brown hair slightly long, front ends barely sweeping his shoulders. Eyes green, dark, light, holding something like everything. He sat at the piano, his notes precise, decisive, intriguing. What had once been a feeble plunking of keys only at Austria's prodding had evolved; now a torrent of sounds and notes and experiences. Dražen's notes...

A wonder how his notes no longer seemed to haunt Austria's memory. They had, for the longest time after the house had been left empty and cold in his absence. And they returned now. Austria remembered how at first, in his earliest writings, the music had been slow, drawn-out, hesitant. As he got more comfortable, that shy edge had disappeared, leaving music someone would slow-dance to. He'd had a remarkable affinity for nearly stagnant notes that somehow could sound connected when it was him. Something Austria, against his own personal preferences, duly admired, but would never admit he did so.

As the many years passed, the music became faster. Quicker, less sluggish, less precise. His fingers were not as careful as they used to be. His music became more of a smattering of notes. Eventually, the notes seemed to be bursting from his every crack and crevice. Some barely made it onto paper. Was that a D-minor or a E-minor? Austria hadn't been able to tell. But he had known. He had seen Dražen's emotions in his music, and they were not promising. Every day, he got worse and worse, his mind bursting at the seams. But Austria chose to do nothing.

Now he regretted it, that he had disregarded the rantings of a bright but tortured soul, seemingly brilliant at first glance but agonizing when dug deeper. The music had been pure skill, even if the mind had not been. But God knew how Austria hated to turn off the music.

Something outside brought him back to reality. He shivered. The room, which had previously been a rather comfortable temperature, now seemed freezing. His fingers shook as he once again grazed them over the notes. He could almost feel Dražen's pen scratching on the paper furiously, leaving the notes barely legible. He could almost feel Dražen's furious stare, as if the notes just could not go down fast enough. Or, perhaps, that they could not get out of his mind fast enough.

Austria exhaled. He hadn't even noticed he'd been holding his breath. The air seemed to create little puffs of white freeze. God, was it _that_ cold now?

Austria stood. A small smattering of papers fell off his lap, but he didn't react. He swept some more off his stool, and sat almost robotically. He placed the sheet on the stand, but his fingers hesitated over the keys. It wasn't right. He couldn't play this. This was Dražen's. This did not belong to him, could never belong to him.

This wasn't Austria's normal attitude towards music. Music was something to be shared. Music could be played by everyone. Just not _this_ music. This was the least Austria could do for Dražen, after everything. No one had played this composition other than Dražen. It was wrong to be the second; without his permission at that.

But even with all of this rushing through Austria's mind, he could not help the overwhelming desire to play. And so he finally did; almost of their own accord, his fingers began to play the notes. This was one of Dražen's later pieces - at this point, almost none of them even had titles, which disappointed Austria for some inexplicable reason.

He couldn't do the piece justice. It wasn't a matter of who was the better player, or who was the faster player. Austria just couldn't replicate the emotions Dražen had brought out when he had played this particular piece. Austria's playing was too… slow, too thoughtful, in a strange way. Dražen's fingers had flown across the keys like a butterfly freed. Austria did not bother trying to replicate Dražen's style; but the piece… Austria was somehow not enough to play it.

How funny. The student _does _sometimes surpass the teacher.

Austria could not bring himself to finish the piece. He stopped less than halfway through and set it aside, lips pursed. Austria knew he could not keep this composition any longer, or any of the others. He knew how music could be an escape, but also a prison. It was time to bring back reality.

* * *

It was a rather normal day for Croatia. He almost forgot it was his birthday; or at least, as close a country could get to having a birthday. He was alone - there was no one to celebrate, other than the meager postcards he'd gotten from Janez and Filip and Tatjana and Miloš. No, the biggest, the best reminder was the patriotism in the streets. The waving flags, proud faces, excited children. It lifted his heart in a way that only his people could.

Even at work, no one called _him_ out specifically for his birthday. And he was fine with that.

It was only when he returned home that something even remotely exciting happened. As he went inside, he found a rather large package, not made of cardboard but of plywood, waiting for him on the doorstep. Frowning, he examined the label. He hadn't ordered anything online. And no one ever sent him packages.

More surprising still, it was from… Austria. Not _Mr._ Austria, Croatia was sure, but the address was _in_ Austria. Who in Austria would think to send him anything? No one remembered his birthday, except his neighboring countries, and maybe Greece.

Hauling the package inside, Croatia once again let his mind wander so as who had sent it. He supposed there wasn't much else to do, really, except open it. Grabbing a sharp knife from the kitchen, Croatia set to unpacking whatever was inside. There really was a _lot _of tape and fragile stickers. What could be _in_ this?

Finally, he succeeded in wrenching the top off the box. Inside, there was an almost impenetrable layer of bubble wrap. Once he'd gotten through _that_, well… Croatia sat back on the cold tile floor of his apartment and stared.

It was from Austria. There could be no doubt. Who else would send him… any of this stuff? Only Austria even knew it existed. Gingerly, Croatia returned to the package, lifting its precious contents out of the box. All of his music… everything he'd ever written! This stuff dated back to _centuries_ ago. It was all tied together in a nice pile by some twine, and a Post-It note had been stuck to the first paper, its modern pink neon color a stark contrast to the yellowed notes on the compositions. Croatia didn't even have to read it to know Austria had written it. That was his handwriting.

_To Croatia… it was time all of this was returned to you. Happy Birthday._

Croatia. Since when had Austria referred to him by his country name? It had always been Dražen, or young man, or young sir if he had really been pissed. Croatia was almost certain someone was playing a prank on him. But these compositions were very real, too real. And that was _definitely_ Austria's handwriting.

And the compositions weren't the only thing in the package. A few of his paintings were also crammed in there, which explained the over-the-top packaging. These were the smaller ones, though. Croatia knew the rest, the ones too big to pack up and ship by mail, would probably still be over at Austria's old place. Or maybe he'd gotten rid of them. Who knew?

The only thing Croatia did know - there was one painting that was not included in the package. He sat back on the floor again. He didn't know whether he was glad that the painting wasn't there, or if he somehow felt some sort of… longing for it?

Impossible. That painting held only misfortune, only bad memories. He was glad it was gone. He hoped it was burned somewhere. That Austria, or someone else, had destroyed it somehow. But then why did he feel a sharp cut in his chest when he thought of it… gone? Of its canvas ripped to shreds, turned to ashes…

Ugh. Croatia couldn't focus on that now. He looked through the rest of the paintings Austria had sent. Most were landscapes, the same scene in Austria's old garden during different times of day, some were still lifes, and a few were portraits - of the old maids, the house staff, Elizaveta, even Austria himself, back in his younger days. Croatia felt a small smile make its way onto his face.

He put the paintings down now, and unwrapped the twine on the compositions. Good Lord, he remembered these. Most, especially the earlier ones, were just silly. _Story of a Mouse_? _Orchids in Bloom_? Such cliché titles… not to mention the music. It was dull, and slow, and boring. As he flipped through the pages, Croatia found himself disliking many of these old writings, though he supposed that was to be expected. He found himself wondering what Austria had remembered them. Had he read them all? Croatia… didn't exactly know how he would feel about that. No doubt they were all childish to him.

Then he flipped to another section in the compositions. One in particular stood out to him. This was the first composition he had actually taken seriously. One could call this his… musical awakening, so to speak. This one barely had a title: just "One". Yet… he remembered writing it well.

* * *

_**1658**_

_Dražen's hands flew over the keys. Eyes closed, fingers played the notes as if that was their only purpose, his only thoughts being faster, better, louder. Faster. The world faded, a dull roar in the background, colors turned to black and white. Better. The notes rang out, the clear chiming of a bell. Louder. He barely glanced at the sheet music. He saw nothing, felt nothing but the keys and the music and just himself -_

_ And then a dull thump where there was not supposed to be one - a wrong note, a misstep, a single error. Dražen faltered, cringing, his hands already shying away from the notes. His eyes opened. The spell was broken._

_ He stared through a dull haze of the tired mid-afternoon light that streamed through the window lazily, casting shadows on the walls and pinpricks of light on the floor. Little specks of dust floated through it, becoming visible to the naked eye. Dražen tore his gaze away from the little floating details to find Mr. Austria leisurely reading a book in the armchair, not even looking in Dražen's direction._

_ "Again." He didn't even bother to gaze up from the book to say this, instead licking a finger and turning the page._

_ Dražen felt his fingers clench. A little, hidden part of him bubbled to the surface. A part that absolutely despised all of this. "I've already done it dozens of times." He stated coldly, and clasped his hands in his lap. Just today, he'd been going through this exact same music for hours._

_ "And you'll do it a dozen times more." Mr. Austria finally glanced up, eyes narrow, tone slightly venomous - though that was just the usual. "Whatever it takes."_

_ "For what?" Dražen sneered, standing up now, pushing the stool back roughly. "What are you hoping I'll get from this stupid instrument?"_

_ Mr. Austria raised an eyebrow. Dražen knew why; he never complained. He always did what was asked of him. And he was tired of that. Mr. Austria would never care. He could play this piece his whole life and he would never be good enough. In fact - Mr. Austria would probably like that! To see him slave away at this instrument. Dražen wasn't even good at it. He always made a mistake. He always messed up. Mr. Austria could probably play this perfectly with his hands tied and eyes closed. Which Dražen didn't care about. But why did he have to force him to do it as well? This was all just a bunch of -_

_ "I see. In that case… you aren't going to play for me for a week." Mr. Austria mused, picking at his nails disinterestedly._

_ Dražen gaped. "W-what? Really?"_

_ "But I am requiring you to write a twelve-page composition by this time in seven days, which is when you will perform it flawlessly and without sheet music."_

_ Oh. _Oh. _Of _course_ he would think up something like this._

_ "I've only been playing for -!"_

_ "You've been playing long enough to believe you are above practice. Even with your _obvious_ mistakes." Mr. Austria's eyes flicked to the piano, and Dražen reddened. "Therefore, it is time to do something about that."_

_ With that last sentence, Mr. Austria stood up regally, dusted a nonexistent spot off his coat, closed his book with a thump that sent the dust specks in the room flying in a frenzy, and stalked out, leaving the door open in his wake._

_ Dražen slammed the key cover shut angrily and fought the urge to punch something. He hated Mr. Austria. He hated this situation. He hated living here. He hated not being enough..._

_ It was then that Dra__žen watched__ a lazy day pas__s__, one where Mr. Austria had apparently gone off to Italy, and Dražen absolutely refused to even _look _at any sort of sheet music out of sheer spite. Instead, he visited the kitchens, stole a few pastries, tried painting Mr. Austria's tulip garden for the eighteenth time, was unsatisfied and tired of painting the same thing, threw it at a wall, and then threw it away. It was only a few hours later that Dražen's raw, undiluted rage at this whole debacle and his eighteenth tulip garden painting turned to a sense of cunning. He had to do something. He had to surprise Mr. Austria so much that the old man would have a heart attack! Yes, that was perfect. But what?_

_ He then spent another few hours brainstorming, until he saw that the answer was right under his nose! Yes, all he had to do was… the exact thing he hadn't wanted to do. By making the absolute best composition he ever could, instead of throwing together a few random notes on the last night of his vacation as he'd planned, he could blindside Mr. Austria. He could absolutely shock him with music-playing brilliance. Now that… _that_ was a good idea._

* * *

_**2012**_

Austria had been duly impressed. That much he remembered. The notes were deliberate, perfect, melodious. They all worked together in a story only Dražen knew the exact tune of, and his mistakes had practically gone unnoticed.

It had been exactly what he had been waiting for.

All along, Austria had known Dražen, no matter how he would have denied it. Getting Dražen angry was essentially just a precursor to getting him motivated, just like how it was with the majority of the Balkans. All along, Austria had known that Dražen was a diamond in the rough. That his original dull attitude towards the piano masked the true gem inside. And, like in many things, Austria had not been proven wrong. Dražen had turned out to be everything he had expected and more.

But at what cost?

* * *

_**The Ashes of Lifetimes Ago**_

_**2012**_

It was one of the warmer days of an abnormally cold and snowy winter. Vuk hadn't spent quite so much time on the streets in a while, but today was his day off, and he didn't really feel like taking the bus. The sun shone lightly through a sheen of frozen fog, but the air was still half-frozen and Vuk's breath puffed up lightly every time he exhaled.

But in the end, the thin layer of snow that layered on buildings and streets was… majestic, in a way.

Vuk hadn't had this much free time in a while. He went to visit one of his friends, who owned and operated a small art gallery. She was an old woman, hair grey with age, constantly wearing old silver glasses with a small chain.

The bell on the gallery chimed pleasantly as Vuk entered, and a familiar aroma of chamomile tea hit him right in the face. Little dust specks arose from the dusty furniture. The shop was a little cluttered and there were a few other customers, but it wasn't too busy right now. Vuk had to side-step a few armchairs and cloth-covered tables to get all the way to the back.

"Vuk? Is that you?"

"Mrs. Snežana!" Vuk smiled and offered her the bouquet of yellow tulips he'd bought before he arrived. "It's so good to see you." He said as he leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

"Hmph! Late, late again. Haven't seen you here in a month! Maybe more!" She tutted, adjusting her glasses.

Vuk grinned. "Sorry, Mrs. Snežana. Work, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know how it is. It's good to see you too, boy." She chuckled finally, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

"Any new paintings come in?" Vuk pulled back a little, staring curiously at the paintings hung up on the walls and strewn around on shelves.

"Quite a few, certainly. Surprising, we never really get such a large quantity. I had to practically refurbish the whole left room!"

"Can I see them?" Vuk moved a little in the direction of the left room.

"Of course, boy, we both know that's your favorite part."

Vuk grinned quickly and made his way over. "These are exquisite." He commented after a moment's observation. He admired few portraits done by an artist named Vinch and turned to some still lifes. He went through all the new arrivals, which he knew would take a while.

It was a few hours later when Mrs. Snežana came up behind him. "You seen them all, boy?"

"Absolutely! They're wonderful."

"Yes, yes, but there is one in particular I'd like to show you. It arrived a few nights ago along with a regular shipment from Hungary."

"Oh, really?" Vuk sat back, looking up to Mrs. Snežana.

"Well, it's not really anything special. It's funny… but this particular painting reminded me of you. It likely means nothing other than a coincidence, but… well, here."

She offered him a painting still wrapped in cloth, but Vuk could tell it had been already unboxed. He unwrapped the cloths gently… and was shocked. He almost dropped the painting for his initial surprise. His stomach flipped, and his breathing hitched. Oh. It was… _this _painting. It was only about one foot square, still in the original small golden frame, which was only a little scuffed and worse-for-wear. That frame _he_ himself had chosen out of a whole assortment of them.

"I…"

"It's an uncanny resemblance, isn't it? Why for just a moment, I wondered. And it's from the sixteenth or seventeenth century too, a real original. It really is a strange world, isn't it?"

But Vuk was tuning out all noise by now. This wasn't just an uncanny resemblance to him. It _was_ him. And he remembered it well. He had a slight smirk on his face, as had been the usual in his younger years, but his eyes were caught in a calm expression. He had been certain, for many years after seeing the painting, that he had never actually looked like that - it had just been artist's interpretation. And by God, the artist. He couldn't even begin to fathom the things he was feeling just at seeing this painting. How he felt at finding it again. So it wasn't destroyed somehow. He couldn't even tell if he was glad.

"Vuk?"

"I- yes?" Vuk snapped out of his little reverie and returned to Mrs. Snežana's cluttered art gallery.

"Are you interested in it? I have a few other potential buyers, but I told them to wait. A real original, a real masterpiece… and we don't even have a signature! Otherwise it surely would have gone to the next of kin. But, no idea who the artist is." Mrs. Snežana sighed. "At least there's a title."

Vuk almost laughed. Of course he would have forgotten to sign it, yet given it a title. But Vuk knew very well who the artist was. And there would have been no need to find the next of kin. But did he even want it anymore? Had he ever really wanted it?

Could Vuk possibly fathom buying this? It would be ridiculous. He didn't deserve this painting. It was almost a violation. He'd said he would never think about that painting again.

On the other hand, he couldn't fathom letting someone else buy it even more. Someone else buying it, then putting it in an attic somewhere to rot, or would it go in some sort of museum for everyone to see? For everyone to see his private thoughts of so many years, of so many centuries? He was slightly disgusted at the idea.

Before he could overthink this any more, he spoke. "Of course. How much?"

Well, the price was a little steep. It was just _him_, after all. Back in the day, this wouldn't have been worth half a golden coin. But, well… he couldn't fathom letting someone else buy it.

Vuk would burn it. That was the only solution. There was no way he could do anything else. He couldn't very well keep it. But he could _not_ talk to Dražen about it. Vuk was scared of what he would say in response. Actually, terrified. No, he would burn it, that was the best solution, he thought as he left the gallery with the painting bundled up and in a small bag. He didn't even hear the chiming of the bell this time. He would burn it, so it would no longer be there just for someone else and their family, who didn't know anything about it, to keep it for however long it would still stay on this earth, but for it to move on. Like Vuk had, and Dražen had, after almost a century. Like everyone else had. After almost five hundred years, it was time for this painting to move on as well.

* * *

_**1694**_

_ This was… ridiculously boring._

_ "Are you doooone?" Vuk groaned, leaning his head back for the first time in what was surely a ga__dzi__llion hours._

_ "Hold still!" Dražen snapped, only the tip of his head visible over that gigantic easel. "And no."_

_ "You didn't even look! How do you know I moved?" Vuk crossed his arms incredulously._

_ Dražen's left eye appeared off the side of the canvas, narrowed. "An artist always knows. Now hold still! This is why we never do portraits of children."_

_ "Hmph, children." Vuk grumbled at the insult. "I've been sitting here for days!"_

_ "It's been two hours, and I've barely gotten anywhere compared to yesterday because you just keep moving. I swear, I'm starting to regret offering this."_

_ Vuk felt a little twinge of involuntary guilt. "Well, it's your fault." He grumbled. "Now you have to finish it."_

_ "Actually, I don't _have _to finish anything. The only reason I haven't thrown this canvas out yet is that you're my friend and I can put up with you, at least a little better than other people can."_

_ "Also you hate leaving things unfinished." Vuk added smugly._

_ A sigh. "Also, I hate leaving things unfinished."_

_ The silence fell back upon them like a wave as Dražen continued working, and Vuk zoned out. "Are you at least almost done?" Vuk finally said once again._

_ "Actually… yes. Almost. You should stop asking so much."_

_ "Well, I only do that because you won't even show me the painting of, well, me!"_

_ "Be patient."_

_ And that was the end of conversation once again._

* * *

_ It turned out, Dražen had been exaggerating when he'd said _almost_, probably to shut Vuk up. It was actually another whole day of Vuk sneaking out and back in through the window after breakfast, and Dražen discreetly dragging all his paints back down to the room, before it was done._

_ After a particularly boring stretch of mind games Vuk played with himself, Dražen stood up. "Done." He said finally, after a moment. "Now just for it to dry."_

_ Vuk listed his head. He half-expected there to be some sort of fanfare. "Can I see it now?"_

_ "Well, I guess you can, now. But don't touch it! Or you'll ruin it, and I'll have to paint a whole new one all over again."_

_ "Okay, okay, don't touch, got it." Vuk shuddered at the idea of just sitting for another five days as he got up from his little stool (God, his butt hurt!) and made his way over to the Dražen's side of the room and got his first good look at the canvas._

_ Vuk stared for just a moment, then burst out laughing. "I don't really look like that!"_

_ Dražen cast him a deadpan stare. "It's true, sadly, I did have to make you just a little more handsome. I have standards for people I paint, you know."_

_ "What? No, that's not what I - I'm talking about the expression!"_

_ It was so strange. Vuk looked so much older, in some strange way. His grin was apparent, as it usually was, but his eyes were… calm, thoughtful, both things he was not._

_ "I just paint what I see." Dražen shrugged, by now washing off his brushes and stowing his paint away._

_ "No, I'm serious! You have to…" Vuk trailed off. This was uncanny. "It…"_

_ Dražen raised an eyebrow._

_ Vuk sighed. "It's nice. Thank you."_

_ And it was nice. Dražen was a pretty good artist, Vuk supposed. But those eyes…_

_ "You're welcome." Dražen turned away, returning the last of his materials._

_ "Well, I guess I don't really have anything else to do here, now." Vuk laughed. "It's actually kind of strange, not having to sit there for hours anymore. I'm free~!" But his laughter dissipated after a moment. He scuffed his shoe on the soft carpet floor. "You might not see me for a while after this time. Sadik wasn't really in such a good mood last time he came."_

_ Vuk could feel Dražen cringe a little. "You call the Ottoman Empire by his first name?"_

_ Vuk grinned. "Yeah. He hates it. It's great."_

_ Dražen shook his head. "Is that why he wasn't in such a good mood?"_

_ Vuk shrank a little. " Nah. He… well, I…"_

_ Dražen nodded. He understood. "Nevermind, then. You don't have to talk about it."_

_ "It's not that I don't want to. It's just, well, the stuff he does isn't really that… fun." On second thought, Vuk actually didn't want to talk about this in front of Dražen. Dražen was here in this fancy palace, safe with Mr. Austria, who could get a little annoying but really couldn't hurt someone like Dražen even if he tried, and Vuk was in his stupid run-down one-room cottage, stuck with Sadik, who could be fun to mess with, but not when he was in a bad mood. Not when he had Vuk's entire people in a choke hold._

_ Dražen crossed the room in a few strides, and put a hand on Vuk's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have to deal with him."_

_ His eyes were very green and sympathetic, an expression he didn't carry often. Vuk felt his stomach churn. He smiled weakly. "It's okay. I'm used to… being under control."_

_ Vuk could feel Dražen's touch waver, feather-light. "No, it's not." He said, voice a little muffled, as he half-wrapped his arms around Vuk. "It's not."_

_ Vuk paused, a little tense. It wasn't as if he and Dražen touched a lot. They fought and bickered, laughed and plotted, but there wasn't a lot of room in their friendship for emotional things. And that was good for Vuk. He wasn't good at emotional things. But he hugged Dražen back anyway, and it didn't feel half-bad._

* * *

_**2012**_

Dražen's hair was longer than Vuk remembered. It was also unkempt, something Vuk hadn't seen in a while. All the more to remind him of the few years that had passed since they'd seen each other.

And the silence... Vuk nearly winced at the uncomfortable atmosphere. God, he regretted this. This had been a terrible decision. _Why_ hadn't he just _burned_ the damn painting, instead of _calling_ -

"I thought you would have destroyed it." Dražen's voice cut through the air like a knife.

"You must really think so little of me." Vuk responded, tone equally harsh, adequately hiding the fact that that had been exactly what he'd planned to do.

"We both know what I think of you." Dražen moved closer to the painting, which was sitting in a corner of Vuk's tiny apartment. He kicked at the frame a little, scuffing it with his boot. Vuk clenched his jaw. "That's not what this is about."

Vuk eyed him brazenly. "Do you want it?"

Dražen clenched his fists, still turned away from Vuk. His shoulders slumped a little. The pause was unbearable. "Do you?"

Vuk laughed mirthlessly. "Don't turn this on me. _I_ asked _you_."

"And I'm telling you that I don't fucking know. Do you want it or not?"

The truth was, Vuk also had no idea. On the one hand, that painting held good memories. But on the other hand, it definitely didn't. And... "We swore we'd never talk about it again."

This time, it was Dražen who let out the humorless chuckle. "And we know how well that always ends."

Vuk gritted his teeth. "Can we stop beating around the bush? We have to do _something_ with this thing."

Dražen went quiet again. "I don't want to let it go. But I don't want to remember it either." he said finally, voice quiet.

That seemed to sum Vuk's thoughts up well enough, as well. "We're countries. We remember too many things too well. Why would we forget something something like this? The hours I spent staring at that things, it's burned into my damn eyeballs by now." The words came from nowhere, but they were the right ones.

Dražen looked up at him, green eyes flashing, and in that moment, they were on exactly the same page for the first time in a long time. And Vuk could tell that Dražen, too, had finally accepted what had to be done.

* * *

As the painting burned, as canvas turned to ash and gold decoration turned to dust, Vuk stared at it silently, unblinkingly. Dražen turned away, head buried in his hands. Neither said a word.

But as the crackle of the flames turned ever softer, and smoke stopped rising quite so thickly, Dražen leaned into Vuk, and Vuk didn't stop him. Maybe it _had_ been years - but Dražen still fit into his arms like a perfectly matching puzzle piece.

After the fire had long died, and the sun disappeared behind the tips of trees and buildings and the stars formed constellations silently, the two stood. Dražen went one way, Vuk the other, no surprises, no secrets spoken. The night air stayed the same, thick and heavy.

The ashes of a centuries-old painting scattered in the wind, and no one noticed.

* * *

_Hello, dear reader, and thank you for taking the time to look at this story! It's rather short, and I wouldn't ever consider it my best work, but it's definitely the first of many! If you enjoyed this story, please consider following me on Tumblr (which is where I will post all writing updates) at .com! Also, any feedback is greatly appreciated._

_Thank you once again! If there are any questions or historical inaccuracies, please do not hesitate to let me know... and until next time! :)_


End file.
